Sometimes, when you feel a cry coming on...

SING ME A LULLABY

Clayton Anderson Bell

Please sing me a lullaby.
One that speaks of peace and quiet,
Of a world filled with hope and joy,
Where children play and birds do fly,
No sadness please for my heart is aching so.

Please sing me a lullaby.
Yes, an old lullaby from bygone days,
One that carries mellow tones,
My ears hear only saddest sighs,
My eyes are filled with tears once more.

Please sing me a lullaby.
Brahms? Yes, I love Brahms, so tender,
Sing in a key that I might join you,
See how still the eve does lie,
Excuse me if I cry myself to sleep.

Please sing me a lullaby.
Sing it softly, quietly, tenderly,
All heartbreak now begins to fade,
I feel my will again to try,
Sing me a lullaby, please sing me a lullaby.

In memory of Paul Haugen who walked these paths...

JUVATN
Clayton Anderson Bell

Oh, how the name touches my lips
Like the finest Sparkling wine.
Standing amid the mountain tops
Is a cabin from older time.

I hear the winds, they call to me
Come, before it is too late.
Enter in this open door,
Drink waters from the lake.

Look, the reindeer pass in file
As snow falls clean and white,
The log upon the fire burns
“Skoll” rings to close the night.

Yes Tarjei, I hear the sound,
Land of our Mother’s birth,
To stand upon Juvatn’s ground,
We find a new found worth.

Valle, open up your arms
To this stranger from afar,
Let me climb those mountains,
To live with Juvatn’s stars.

How well we remember Tarjei and Pal

TWO VIKING MEN

With outstretched hands they entered in,
Two tall, straight bodies lean, so trim.
Ivory smiles, sunburned faces,
They grip my hand, give warm embraces.

They are my kin of years far by,
Whose blood does flow as mine, but why?
My Mother’s grace, poise and flare,
Show through each man, I only stare.

These men have come from Norway’s shore,
Gifted men, lettered men, yet more,
They speak of Kings, my heritage,
My name, they say is on their page.

Far back in time, yet still it stands
As though written, by present hands,
A true Son of Norway, blessed be,
“Stand with us, for we are now, three”.

June 27 2007

A gentleman meets a lady..

A PILGRIMAGE OF LOVE

Clayton Anderson Bell


How did you come into my life? By chance; I think not.
You see I have been searching for you all of my life.
Since I have found you, I can never let you go!

You fill my every hour with love; how did I find you
Does one find a single star and know it is the one,
Among trillions, that ends a pilgrimage of love?

How did I know; how did you know we would meet?
You spoke, I listened; I spoke, you listened;
Now we speak as one; so soft the sounds.

Life begins with a pilgrimage of love, a searching for love.
How did I find you in this pilgrimage of love?
What a beautiful way to describe life!

May 21 2008

When true love meets true love...

“NOW THE HEART HAS A PLACE
TO COME HOME TO.”

Clayton Anderson Bell



Long the days and longer the nights,
Heavy the weight of wrong or right,
Alone in a world of love and grace
Yet never to know my time or place;
Hidden deep in my wandering soul
Is the right to find this hidden goal.


Many the doors one opens wide,
Only to find no love inside,
Turn and wander to play the part,
Find a home for a homeless heart.
Then, a smile, a touch, a voice so true,
My heart finds a place to come home to.


Sharing each word, treasure each line,
The touch of a hand, whispers sublime,
Taste the love in each kiss so sweet,
Feel the warmth of arms that reach,
Beckoning so that love shines through,
“Now, my heart has a place to come home to.”

A man and his music lives on forever...

PLAY IT AGAIN SAM


A shock of white, a smile so bright,
He took his place upon a chair.
I saw him sway, then start to play,
A world of music filled the air.

From deep within, with a roguish grin,
Long loved tunes formed from his hands.
With fingers curled, like flags unfurled,
Then he stopped…and the room stood still.

His brow was set, no sound was let.
He rose with a winking eye.
A nod was all, then as if by call
With love in hand… he bid us all good-bye.


July 18 2007

Memories for a wonderful person...

LOVE IN LATER LIFE
Clayton Anderson Bell


Love and youth hold to dreams in June’s fulfillments,
Flowing gowns of white, on father’s arm, flower girls,
Tuxedos and boutonnieres, Mother’s tears and maidens’ hopes,
First love, everlasting love, love for eternity.


Life now casts its net across the face of love, catching, holding
Words, deeds, actions and reactions; all are captive,
Held to be found wanting or wanting to be found,
Love will survive, love will disappear, and love will falter.


Time is forever, love perhaps not, but life will carry on.
Gone is the fire of youth, the coals begin to glow.
How warm a second feeling, how soft a touching hand,
How deep a love in later life can become.


Gone the idle boasts of youth, held fast are words of truth,
Words that deepen into treasured memories,
Actions that play across one’s mind, now and forever,
How deep a love becomes in later life.

Like moths to a flame...

FLIN FLON…SO LONG AGO
Clayton Anderson Bell summer 2008



Flin Flon, this town gathers her flock once more about her.
Like the Mother Merganser,
Still she gathers more.

Flin Flon, our birthplace, our home, our stepping stone to the world.
Young bodies leave and brilliant minds return to relive once again
Their humble beginnings.

Flin Flon, rocks, lakes, hills, thriving forever beneath Northern Lights.
Home to the miners, fishermen, lumbermen, businessmen, teachers,
Service Clubs, CFAR, Miner (Scoop) and Reminder.
We who stayed, we who return.

Flin Flon, town of champions in every field; sports, medicine, business.
Parents who raised us, praised us, sent us into the world,
Veterans who protected us.

Flin Flon memories; Community Hall, Stag, Northland and Rex,
Sam Hankin’s, Scheider’s, Freedman’s, Club News, Milt’s,
Neil McLennan, Rev. Horsefield, Baldy Green, Dr. Johnson.
Memories.

Flin Flon Bombers, Legionettes, Kopper Kings, Curling champions,
Paddlers, Camp Whitney, Phantom Lake, Jubilee Jive, Main &
Hapnot High, HBM&S, Community Hall, Trout Festival.
Memories.

Flin Flon, our home town, we will return again,
And again for the rest of our lives.
Memories.

Dedicated to Paul Haugen and Baldy Jackson and all other men and women of the north

THE PADDLERS
Clayton Anderson Bell

Young and in their very prime
Their racing paddles keeping time,
On count of four, paddles swing,
Canoes slicing, waters sing.

Miles fly by, and by again
Shorelines change, the daylight wanes,
Muscles ripple as pain begins,
Strokes increase the will to win.

These men of the northern lights,
Fight the winds both day and night.
Waves wash in, no fear they make,
These paddlers strive for higher stakes.

Bow and bow to the finish line,
Paddles rip the water’s brine,
Win or lose men paddle forth,
All who live and love the north.

The call of the north...

FLIN FLON GOLD
Clayton Anderson Bell


I struck it rich in Flin Flon,
I dug and found the gold.
What do I do with my treasure?
For my very soul I sold.

My family long departed,
My children know me not.
I left them all to moil for gold,
Now that is all I’ve got.

What is it with yellow metal?
It turns a man insane,
He sells his soul to the Devil,
No thought of it again.

No oil now lights my cabin,
Cupboard shelves are bare.
I lie on fifty sacks of gold,
Not a living soul to care.

I hear music at the door,
The Devil, he waltzes in.
Waves a hand, my gold is gone.
I’ve paid for all my sins.

A city under northern lights...

FLIN FLON
Clayton Anderson Bell


“What is it that keeps holding us here,
Like a magnet to minerals so near?”
Land often covered by crystals of snow
It’s minus forty and nowhere to go.

Something holds all in a powerful grip
Challenging each not to falter or slip.
Never look down and never look back,
Weary the load, we cut you some slack.

Pushing northward in canoe or by trail,
Feet often tire but hearts never fail.
The love of the land gripping you fast,
Hands now callused by powder and blast.

Dare to be counted for here we call home,
No need to ramble, no need to roam.
Safe and secure, rise upwards or down,
All are guardians of our cherished town.

Dedicated to Dr. Jim Wood who read this poem to me...

SEARCHING
Clayton Anderson Bell

I searched for God in buildings, then in caves of stone.
I listened to those in raiments, chanting words unknown.
“Where are you God?” I cried, then came a muted tone.
“Follow your heart to a distant land, rise, and go alone.”
I traveled to the Holy land, a path now overgrown.

There I met a man, on the shores of Galilee.
We stopped and started talking; it was just him and me.
“Come, sit upon this log” he said, that was fine I did agree.
I noticed that the shape was odd, a different type of tree.
It seemed to form a symbol then, just reaching out to me.

I noticed reddish stains appeared, not covered by the bark.
They seemed to form a pattern, say about two arms apart.
Yet stranger still was where He sat, a body’s length to start.
Two stains more of reddish hue, brought tremor to my heart.
He said, “I’ll just rest awhile before we must depart”.

He slept upon the twisted wood, such peace I’d never seen.
It was as though He called to me, yet no spoken word between.
Pick up this tree and follow for a life much more serene.
Leave behind all care and woe, help others join the scene.
I fought the urge to join him, “I’m not worthy of your team”.

He held me in His arms that day, and stroked my weary brow.
He told me of his love for all, His Father taught Him how.
“It matters not if you have sinned, you are forgiven now”.
I fell and kissed his blood stained feet, I rose again somehow.
My search for God is over, I walk with Jesus now.

Nature wears a coat of many colors

sad songs

clayton anderson bell



loons lament
haunting songs
across
grey lakes


ravens croak
sadly searching
for food in
black bags


robins weep
as worms hide
beneath frozen
brown grass


geese honk
while flying
over icy
white lakes


nature sings
sad songs
for blue
people

A boyhood memory by an old man...

The Watermelon Man

As a young boy going into grade two, in a northern Ontario bush town, life for me was not easy. I did not know where my mother and father were, as the result of their recent divorce, nor did I know if and when I would see them again.
In a series of moves by both my mother and father I ended up staying with an elderly lady and her two grown sons. They lived on a small, rather run down plot of land, some five miles from the closest town. I lived with them for almost a year, perhaps the longest single year of my life.
The two sons treated me as their younger brother, and because they worked away from the farm each day, I really only got to know them in the evenings and on week-ends. One worked for the railway coal refueling station, and the other was a tourist fishing guide, at a lake some miles away.
Most of the time, however, I spent with their mother. She was a rather large lady, who I recall, did not smile or laugh very easily.
As I settled in, I was given a number of chores to do each day; these were to be done without fail. I soon learned what without fail meant, especially when I forgot to fill the wood box for the kitchen stove. After a sound strapping I was told to go upstairs, without supper, as punishment for my neglect of duty. I can tell you it was a long night for me.
Just before I fell asleep one of the sons came into my room, bringing me a jam sandwich. With his fingers to his lips, to keep me quiet, he whispered for me to say nothing, eat every crumb and not say a word to his mother. I never said a word.
Now all this, I am sure today, was to teach me that I must carry out my assigned
duties; failing to do so would mean punishment. Today, when I recall that incident, I really only remember the lady’s son bringing me a sandwich and how happy I felt at being treated kindly...and life carried on.
I walked to school each day and home again with a group of children who lived along the road to the schoolhouse. I remember it as a very long walk and that many times I was so tired I had to sit down and rest. These rests had to be short because I was expected to be home at a certain time each day and most always I was, all except one time.
About half way home lived an old man in a broken down shack. All the children told me that he was a mean old man who would grab a child, if he caught one on his property. You see, on his property was a watermelon patch, not far off the road. It seemed close enough because we could see big, fat, ripe watermelons. Almost daily one or other of the children would dare the other to sneak in and grab a watermelon; however none dared to even go close.
It struck me that if I could take a watermelon home to give to my guardian lady, as a present from me to her, surely I would be treated much better. That is exactly what I did. Crawling on my stomach, I wiggled my way to a watermelon. My heart was about to explode in my chest and my hands were soaked with sweat as I picked out a melon and wormed my way back to the safety of the road. I ran all the rest of the way home.
When I entered the house, watermelon under my arm and a big smile on my face, I presented her with the prize watermelon. In a matter of seconds, I was branded a thief and received the strapping of my young life. Not a single word did she ask me as to why I had brought home the watermelon.
Because the old man had so many watermelons, it never dawned on me that he would even care about one melon being taken. I was soon to find out. I was told in no
uncertain terms to take the watermelon back, knock on the door and apologize to the old man. I had never been so scared!
As I was walking slowly up to the old man’s door, in my mind, I could hear the voices of the children telling me just what the old man could and would do to me. When I knocked on the door, it slowly opened and there he stood. I swear he was a giant!
Somehow I stammered out my crime and prepared for the worst. The old man spoke to me for the first time; his voice was soft and low. He asked me why I had taken the melon, so I explained to him why I had done it. He asked me if I knew it was wrong to take something without permission and I said I did. He then asked me if my guardian had wondered why I took the watermelon. I told him she had not, but that she had just given me the worst strapping of my life.
The old man then told me to come into his house and sit at the table. I did, and then he took a huge knife off the sideboard and turned towards me.
My whole world nearly stopped right then!
He cut the melon in slices and gave me a piece to eat. Together we ate most of the watermelon. He then told me not to say a word about eating watermelon with him. I was just to go home and say I was sorry for my actions.
This I did and from that day forward I have always tried my best to carry out my duties. I did not always succeed, but I have tried, and vowed to keep trying. Many times over the years the actions of the lady, her son and the watermelon man have come to mind.
Always, I thank them all.

Each year this story is played out in nature...

The Mother Loon
Clayton Anderson Bell

Many years ago, during a hot July afternoon, I was sitting on my deck overlooking the lake on whose shore I had a cabin. My wife was busy inside preparing for visitors due the following day.
I noticed a mother loon and her single baby swimming not far off shore. The mother was busy catching food for the little one and all seemed right with the world. A dark shadow appeared over the baby loon and suddenly the baby was gone. An Eagle had swooped down from its hunting circle high above the lake and snatched away the baby.
The mother loon surfaced with a small fish in her mouth to feed the baby loon. On seeing that the baby was gone she began a frantic search on the water. Around and around she swam till at last she realized that her baby was gone. I cannot describe how my heart ached for her.
Later that evening I noticed the mother loon swimming close to my cabin, head low in the water and slowly treading in circles.
The next day our visitors arrived, a mother and young child about eight years old.
The young child, stood at the railing of the deck and looking out on the lake, spotted the mother loon and began to sing in her small, sweet voice, a lullaby the little girl’s mother had taught her years before. The mother loon seemed to suddenly lift her head and started swimming towards the cabin deck.
In all my years I had never seen anything like this, the action between a human and a wild bird. The mother loon cried out in a low haunting cry as the little girl continued to sing to her. I stood in the shadow of the cabin unseen by the child and the mother loon and could not move. As the little girl’s lullaby ended she waved her small hand as if to say a final farewell and went back into the cabin. The mother loon turned away and swam far out on the lake.
This little girl and her mother soon went back to their home in the city and life carried on. Then one day I received a small parcel in the mail. I opened it and there was a beautifully carved and painted baby loon. To this day I have that baby loon in my china cabinet. It sits on the top shelf at the very front so I see it each time I pass, and the little girl…. her name was Caroline.